


Endurance

by Anonymous



Series: Kink Meme Prompt Fills [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Embarrassed Sherlock, Hand Jobs, M/M, Unwanted erections, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10048865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Written for Tumblr's @SherlockKinkMeme Prompt#5: Sherlock keeps getting boners like all the time and John finds out and Sherlock is totally embarrassed but then John starts giving him a hand. Wink wink. It would be super cool if you could like also include coming untouched and coming in pants somewhere in there. And super embarrassed Sherlock. Gotta throw on some humiliation kink too.





	1. Cover




	2. Chapter 2

_This is ludicrous!_ Sherlock thought with a huff of frustrated air, rolling to his side to face the back of the couch. His transport was out of control. He had been sorting details from last night’s crime scene, deleting the unimportant bits and reviewing the clues he had found, searching his mind palace for anything that might help him move forward with solving the recent rash of break ins he was certain were connected _somehow_ . He had been absorbed in the work, until his flatmate had decided to stroll through the living room in a bathrobe, trailing the scent of freshly washed _John_ past him.  

Sherlock had been pulled from his thoughts by his body’s seemingly reflexive reaction to John. His nostrils had flared as the cloud of steamy air had entered the living room from the short hallway leading to the bathroom, smelling of John’s shampoo and a certain earthy spiciness that Sherlock had come to associate with John.  His chest had heated as he had drawn in deep breaths, dragging the air into his lungs as though he had been deprived of air before John entered the room. His heart rate picked up speed as his blood began to pump _in the wrong direction_ as his erection hardened, twitching impatiently against his cotton pajama bottoms.

Sherlock had rolled to his side quickly, grateful John hadn’t glanced over and seen the undeniable proof of his body’s betrayal.  He tilted his head, glaring down at his offending member. This was just another in a seemingly endless stream of inappropriate physical reactions to his flatmate since John had returned to Baker Street.  The trouble was, it seemed to be getting worse, and his symptoms were starting to affect him more and more frequently.  Just this morning, he had woken to find his sheets a sticky mess-a condition he hadn’t found them in since he had been an adolescent with out of control hormones.  

What had started as warm tingling wherever they came in contact, a slight breathlessness if their eyes held a bit too long, an ache to press against John whenever they stood too close...symptoms he had been used to _before_ ...was progressing in intensity, duration and frequency...along with new symptoms, including an apparently _ever ready erection_! Sherlock had never experienced such intense, frequent, persistent, hard to ignore physical attraction in his life. The past few weeks had been a trial-if he couldn’t get his transport back under control, he was convinced he would start losing brain cells.  

Sherlock closed his eyes, willing his body to calm, pulling out his arsenal of tricks. He buried his nose in the couch, blocking out the scent of John.  He pulled up an image of Mycroft eating cake...when that didn’t work, he began reciting the Fibonacci Sequence, trying to lose himself in the pattern.  After a few minutes, he felt controlled enough to open his eyes and pull his head away from the couch.  He inhaled carefully, pleased to find his body stayed in his control.  Moments later his phone buzzed, and he drew out his phone and read the message quickly, jumping to his feet with a shouted “Case, John!” before dashing down the hall to his room so he could change into a suit and his tightest pair of pants.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock bit back a frustrated groan.   _Of all the times and places for his licentious libido to act up_!  They had been at the latest break in scene, when Sherlock had realized the thief had been interrupted mid burglary. He spun on his heels and called for John to follow over his shoulder as he’d dashed down the hall, quickly assessing potential hiding spots as he moved through the upstairs family rooms.  He’d entered the son’s bedroom, glancing about quickly, but not quickly enough. The criminal must have heard them coming, for he had launched himself across the bed at Sherlock, tackling him to the ground almost immediately upon Sherlock’s abrupt entry to the room.

Sherlock had barely had time to react before the surprisingly heavy press of a wiry young man had been torn from him.  He sat up and watched, wide eyed, as John flipped the youth up and over his own body, twisting so that John was pinning him down before the criminal could catch his breath.  John’s arm was pinned across the young man’s neck, his upper torso bearing down.  His hips pinned the youth at the waist, while his thighs had spread slightly to allow his knees to pin the younger man’s legs.

Sherlock couldn’t help but appreciate the way the position highlighted the strength of John’s arms...the broadness of his shoulders...the tautness of his arse...the musculature of his thighs….his mind helpfully provided an image of himself pinned down beneath John, John using his legs to spread Sherlock’s so he could press himself between them, his arms braced on either side of Sherlock’s head so he could maintain eye contact as he-

“Sherlock!”

He was torn from his imaginings to find John glancing at him over his shoulder, brow furrowed. His cheeks heated as he realized he had been fantasizing about his best friend while said friend was watching him.  His upwards glance had also taken in Lestrade standing in the doorway, eyebrows lowered and mouth set in a line that said he was barely holding back a lecture aimed at Sherlock.  Sherlock realized there were others waiting just behind Lestrade, wanting to catch a glimpse of the action.  He drew his legs up with a frustrated groan, dropping his head to his knees, closing his eyes and praying no one had noticed the rather prominent erection his wandering mind had summoned.  

He heard bodies shuffling around as Lestrade stepped into the room and took over with the thief, and moments later John was at his side, hands in his hair, shaping to his skull as he checked for injury.  Sherlock’s eyes snapped open to find John’s face inches from his own, his eyes captured by the stormy blue gaze that held nothing but concern for Sherlock.

“Are you alright?  Did you hit your head when that bastard tackled you?” John asked, hands sliding back to curve tenderly around the base of Sherlock’s skull.

“Ah-” he stopped, licking his lips, mouth suddenly dry.  “I’m fine. Just a bit vertiginous.  Wasn’t expecting to find myself horizontal so suddenly.”

Sherlock tore his eyes from John’s, settling on Lestrade.  “He’s friends with the teenage son that lives here. Well, I say friend. In actuality, he’s the son’s drug dealer; and has dealt to the teens and young adults at all the homes he recently burgled. He’s been over sampling the merchandise, needed to supplement his habit and decided the rich spoilt kids he dealt to could afford to lose a little. Didn’t count on this one’s father coming home early-the man always stays late at work, except when he knows the family will all be out for the evening-then he sneaks home early to have a few drinks, watch porn and masturbate. When the theif heard the father come in, he ran to the room he was most familiar with and stayed put. Had your team done their jobs, he would have been found long before I arrived.” the last was delivered with a glare in Donovan’s direction.

By the time he finished explaining the situation, he felt his arousal abating.  John had pulled back, giving him space as it became clear he hadn’t been injured by the tussle with the thieving drug dealer. Sherlock’s cheeks had cooled, his body was firmly back in control.  He stood, wrapping his coat around himself, determined to act as though nothing unusual had occurred (though, lately, becoming aroused at the sight/smell/thought of John _was_ nothing unusual). He drew a deep breath, lifting his chin as he prepared to unleash a torrent of deductions, linking this particular break in with the recent string of them, detailing how the suspect had chosen each and where they would likely find the stolen goods he hadn’t yet fenced.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the back of the cab, resisting the urge to reach down and adjust himself through his clothing. Instead, he pulled his coat closer and thrust his hands into the pockets, hoping to hide his obvious arousal. Fortunately, John seemed distracted himself, gazing out his own window after briefly mentioning dinner, something about ordering takeout.   

They had followed Lestrade to NSY to give and sign witness statements, it had barely been two hours since he had willed away the last erection. But sitting next to John, in the warm cab, John’s spread legs placing his thigh mere inches from Sherlock’s own, his mind had wandered back to the scene in the bedroom earlier, and his imagination had picked up where it had left off…

_He was naked, spread out on his own bed, John’s still clothed form hovering tantalizingly close above him...John was looking at him with that particular expression he wore sometimes, when he seemed unable to contain an exclamation of brilliant! or amazing!...the look that could almost be interpreted as affection and something deeper, something approaching attraction...his arms were holding him just out of reach, a caress of fabric teasing Sherlock’s skin as he strained up, trying to gain friction…_

A warm hand settled high on his thigh, and Sherlock jumped, a sound between a yelp and a whimper falling from his lips. He turned, wide eyed, to find John staring, open mouthed. John recovered first, withdrawing his hand with an apology, eyebrows rising and head tilting towards the window. They had arrived home, and Sherlock had been so wrapped up in his fantasy he hadn’t noticed.

Sherlock dropped his eyes, unable to meet John’s gaze. He felt the heat of a blush rising from his chest, up his neck and across his face. _Had John noticed? Had he observed the state of Sherlock’s body next to his, realized that his touch had nearly driven Sherlock over the edge? A few centimeters upwards, and John would’ve had a hand full of throbbing prick. His firm, hot grip would have been all that was needed to finish Sherlock off-he would have spilled in his pants like a teenager being groped in the back seat of a car after a school dance._   

Sherlock threw a few bills at the cabbie, clambering out of the car and rushing upstairs and into the bathroom, cranking the shower to its coldest setting before stripping and jumping in. Dinner would have to wait.

 

* * *

 

An hour later found him leaving his room, still wearing his tightest pants, but now in his most forgiving pair of pajama bottoms and his sturdiest robe, wrapped carefully so as to best hide any potential _problems_. John had knocked on his door and announced that he’d ordered delivery from Sherlock’s favorite Indian takeaway. He’d seen no way to avoid leaving the room without seeming churlish or drawing unwanted concern from John, so he’d armed himself as best he could and strode down the hall determinedly.

He found John at the counter, reaching up to the cupboard, obviously to grab the plates on the second shelf. Unthinkingly, Sherlock stepped up behind him, grabbing the plates in one hand as he rested the other on the counter next to John’s hip. Just as his fingers wrapped around the edge of the plates, John shifted, rubbing his delectible derrier against that ever so perky part of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock let out a low groan as his hips thrust involuntarily forward, grinding against John’s backside, before inhaling sharply and freezing in place.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice rasped out uncertainly.

Sherlock whirled away, mortification setting his skin on fire even as the heat in his loins continued to rage on. He barely made it a step down the hallway before a hand clamped down on his wrist, halting him in place. Sherlock came to a halt, head bowed, breathing shallow. He watched from under his lashes as John took deliberate steps around Sherlock’s body, never letting go of his arm, bringing himself to stand in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to look up. _Surely John had felt Sherlock’s erection pressing against him. Certainly, there was no other way to interpret the way Sherlock had practically dry humped John, nor could the noise he emitted have been interpreted as anything but sexual._ _If John bothered to observe, he would see the evidence that Sherlock was still hard in his pants, his enduring erection straining towards John, as if it meant to point Sherlock in the right direction._ He didn’t know which would be worse-to see pity on John’s expressive face, mouth set in the slightest frown as his deep blue eyes gazed fondly but sadly at Sherlock-or to see anger, mouth set in a sneer as his eyes cast rage in Sherlock’s direction. Instead, he chose to continue staring at the ground, waiting for the axe to drop.

He was unprepared to see John’s feet squaring off, as if he were bracing himself, for John’s “Right then”, followed quickly by a tug on his wrist that pulled him forward as John’s hands came up to tangle in his hair and tug him down. John’s lips crashed against Sherlock’s in a wet, plundering kiss, tongue pressing insistently against Sherlock’s own mouth until he opened, allowing John to thrust his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth.  

 _John was kissing him. Correction-John was snogging him, pressing him against the wall as he slid one leg up between both of Sherlock’s, mouth never leaving Sherlock’s as he pressed forward, creating the most delicious friction Sherlock had ever felt._ Sherlock whimpered, pulling back.

“John. Please. I-you…” he whimpered again as John dragged his mouth down Sherlock’s neck, stopping to suck hard at seemingly random intervals.  

“I’m-going-to-come-in-my-pants-if-you-don’t-slow-down!” Sherlock blurted in a quick breath, slamming his eyes closed as he felt the humiliation rising again.  

John paused and pulled back. Sherlock sagged, realizing he’d ruined the moment. Now John would walk away, disgusted by Sherlock’s lack of control.

“Come in your pants, hmm?” John rumbled, his voice sounding rather smug and not at all turned off.  

Sherlock nodded, still unable to look at John. Had he been able to look, he would have seen the pleased grin that spread across John’s face, the deepening arousal that darkened his eyes as he allowed his eyes to roam Sherlock’s form. Instead, he found himself being surprised again ( _would he ever tire of John surprising him? He rather thought not_ ) as John surged forward, recapturing his mouth as his hand swept Sherlock’s nightgown to the side and plunged into his pajama bottoms, settling possessively over Sherlock’s throbbing cock.  

Sherlock arched away from the wall, hips seeking to increase the contact instantly. He cried out in pleasure as John released his mouth, breathing against his neck as his clever hand shaped itself around Sherlock’s penis, sliding first down so that his fingers could dip back towards Sherlock’s balls, then up so that the heel of his hand could graze ever so carefully against the weeping head.

“John!” Sherlock’s cry was met with John sliding his hand inside Sherlock’s pants, wrapping around the base and stroking up.

“That’s it sweetheart. Let me see you come. I want to watch you make a mess of your pants. Show me how much you want this.” John panted against his ear, his moist breath sending a thrill down Sherlock’s spine to his lower back, where he felt it radiate forwards before joining the growing pressure in his groin.  

“Ah! John! I-!” Sherlock cried out as he writhed against John in desperation.

John turned his face into Sherlock’s neck, sucking hard just below where jaw and ear met, hand picking up the pace as his chest pressed Sherlock back against the wall.  Sherlock was there, just on the edge, wanting with a desperation he had never experienced in his life, unable to think, only able to feel John, pressed against him, warm, wet mouth moving on his neck, hand wrapped knowingly around him.

Just as Sherlock thought he couldn’t bear anymore, when tears began to form in the corners of his eyes and his mouth began begging incoherently, John released his neck, leaned even more firmly against Sherlock and uttered a breathless “Brilliant!”

Sherlock shot off like a rocket, body arcing as if electrified, shouting John’s name and his come splattered over his groin, pants and John’s hand.  Sherlock lost himself in his orgasm, unable to _see/hear/smell/taste/feel_ anything but the pleasure of his release in John’s clever hand.  

He didn’t know how long he was lost to the world, but when he came back to his senses, it was to find himself slumped against the wall, held up by John’s thighs pressed between his, John’s upper body and arms supporting Sherlock’s weight as his head lolled on John’s shoulder. He straightened slowly, still a bit dizzy, still unable to look John in the face.

“John. I’m sorry-” he started carefully, humiliated at his lack of control over his body.

“Sherlock. No.” John interrupted, hand coming to Sherlock’s jaw to tilt his face towards John’s. “That was fucking brilliant. Seeing how turned on you were, knowing I was doing that to  you-” he cut himself off, inhaling deeply.

Sherlock searched John’s face, still out of his element, unsure of anything except for his own keen sense of embarrassment.  

“You wanted me to…” he trailed off, eyebrows drawn in confusion, unable to say the words.

“Christ. Yes. Knowing you were aroused? By me? That you were desperate for relief and wanted me to provide it? Watching you fall apart in my arms? That was the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen, Sherlock.” John stated baldly, holding Sherlock’s gaze and pressing the proof of his statements against Sherlock’s groin.

“Oh.” Sherlock noted John’s dilated pupils, his elevated respiration. He played back John’s heated words in the moments before Sherlock had reached release.

“Well. You should probably know that I have been living in a state of near constant arousal since you moved back in. I find myself “desperate for relief” every day, sometimes several times a day. And-” here Sherlock looked away, feeling that his next words might be too daring “I have reason to believe that my...condition...will return in the near future” he finished around a suddenly dry throat.

“Oh, I know your “condition” will return.” John smirked.  Sherlock’s eyes returned to John’s, unable to resist the pull of his voice. “In fact, I plan to bring you off again tonight, only this time, I plan to come with you.”

With that, John straightened, grabbing a still discombobulated Sherlock by the arm and leading him down the hall to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock allowed himself to be led, heart racing nearly as fast as his mind. He wondered if what John had suggested was physically possible. After all, he’d already technically achieved two orgasms today. Just as he decided he should explain the situation to John, the man in question stopped just inside Sherlock’s bedroom door and slid his hand down to thread his fingers through Sherlock’s.

“I want to make love to you. I want to slowly take you apart. I want to show you just how desperate for relief you make me while I give you the best orgasm of your life, and then I want to hold you all night and start again in the morning.”

John was watching Sherlock with a tender but expectant look on his face, clearly waiting for a response.

Sherlock realized he had nothing to worry about as his body reacted to John’s words. Heat pooled in his chest, surrounding his heart, and low in his belly, a softer yet somehow more expectant arousal taking hold of him. He flushed, even as he smiled down at John, then tugged John towards the bed.

 

* * *

 

 _Mmmm_ ….Sherlock buried his nose in John’s hair, wrapping his arms tighter around his waist. His leg shifted, sliding even further between John's, seeking as much contact as possible between their bodies. He drifted in the early morning sunlight, mind replaying last night’s lovemaking scenes as he slowly woke.

John had made good on his promise. He had stripped Sherlock frustratingly slowly, kissing each inch of skin as it was revealed. By the time he was finished, Sherlock had no patience left and had practically ripped John’s clothes off, pouncing on him and enthusiastically charting John’s body with his hands and mouth. John had allowed this for a few minutes, but had taken back control of the situation, and Sherlock had found himself drifting in pleasure as John had used his hands, his mouth, his body to bring Sherlock to the edge and back, again and again.  

Sherlock’s cock stirred at the memories, pressing insistently against John’s backside before Sherlock’s mind came back to the present. He stiffened, wondering how on Earth he could get hard so soon. He needed to pull away so he didn’t wake John with his body’s rude prodding, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He let out an annoyed breath, preparing to pull away and go take care of the issue in the bathroom.

“Good, you’re up.” John’s sleepy morning voice curled around Sherlock, holding him in place. John rolled over, pressing his hips against Sherlock’s, slotting their erections together. “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr!](http://nottoolateforthegame.tumblr.com/)


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